Requiem for a Dream
by LizzieV
Summary: Helyka. Wellbering? Either way you say it, major spoilers for "Buried" and "Reset," though it was TRULY spoiled by TPTB. My silly, clichéd take on the finale.


A/N: Seriously, because the Season Finale was THAT believable. I thought I'd try my hand at crack-headed story writing since it works so well for the Syfy channel. Figuratively. I would never use crack, unlike the "Warehouse 13" writers who were in charge of the season finale OOC craziness. Bitter much? You betcha. Still, don't own. Definitely don't make money.

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**_Requiem for a Dream_**

"Myka. Myka. Myka. Wake up darling." H.G. suddenly awoke; not from the early-morning light streaming in through the lone window but by a wayward arm smacking into her chest.

"I had a horrible dream." Myka's voice was small and cracked as the woman instantly reached for her teddy bear, banished to the night table when she shared the bed. "A nightmare."

"Tell me about it." Helena wrapped her arms around the younger woman, spooning into her body under the light cotton sheet.

"I don't know. I don't want to upset you, you had a starring role." Myka's voice began to regain its usual self-confidence.

"What if I promise not to be upset?" Helena tightened her embrace. "Though I have heard that make-up sex is the best sort."

"Where the hell did you pick that up?" Myka turned in the older woman's arms, striking H.G. with her classic wide-eyed inquisitive expression.

"Leena made me sit with her through a marathon of some television series that for the life of me I can't recall the title of—it was on Channel Air."

"The Oxygen channel. Not the best thing when it comes to societal education."

"I'm finding it particularly useful actually." Helena brushed the errant hair from Myka's neck before placing a gentle kiss on the now-exposed skin. Her lips easily detected her lover's still-racing heartbeat. "Darling, tell me about your night terror."

"Well, we went to Egypt because Warehouse 2 woke up." Myka sighed.

"Warehouse 2 is Pre-Classic Mayan and located somewhere in Belize, Warehouse 4 and 7 are in Egypt." H.G. replied matter-of-factly.

"Did you want to hear about my dream or maybe just criticize my subconscious' erroneous Warehouse lore?" Myka's classic wide-eyed exasperated expression made a brief appearance.

"My apologies, continue please." H.G. bit her bottom lip to keep from smiling.

"And then you busted out with this Lara Croft outfit, all tight-fitting tank top and barely-there shorts." Myka fixed the spaghetti strap on the older woman's pajama top that had fallen off her shoulder. Possessively.

"This was a horrible dream, then?" Helena smirked, "And who is this Lara Croft character? A former lover I will have to challenge to a duel?" She almost sounded serious.

Myka smiled, "No, a video game character turned movie goddess. We'll add it to our movie night rotation. It'll be a double feature." She pulled her closer, trying to refocus from the distracting images that outfit caused. "Anyway, we passed all these crazy tests and saved the day. Then you zapped me and Pete and took off to end civilization as we know it." Myka rushed the last part on purpose.

"Come again?" Helena pulled away to look Myka straight on.

"You said that the world needed a rest from the parasites that have plagued it for too long. You were like uber-environmentalist." Myka began to ramble, "I mean, I'm all for saving Mother Earth but not to the point of starting another Ice Age using an ancient weapon of mass destruction—" H.G. was able to silence her with a finger to her lips.

"Sweetheart, obviously 'An Inconvenient Truth' is not a movie to fall asleep to if it has such an effect on your psyche. Though I could see how President Gore could give someone nightmares." Helena tried to sound understanding as she tried to make sense of Myka's dream, purposely skimming over the fact that she was yet again being stereotyped as the villainous saboteur.

"He was never actually President."

"But I read somewhere that he invented the internet, how could you people _not_ elect him."

"Very long story." Myka all of a sudden had a sharp intake of breath, remembering a particularly traumatic moment. "I asked you to shoot me. I had you hold the gun against my head and asked you to end my life." Myka reflexively rubbed the area on her forehead, expecting to feel a groove embedded there. Helena took the younger woman's hand away from her face, entwining their fingers. She leaned in and kissed the area where a furrow began to form.

"So many details. It felt so real." The young woman sounded guilty for even having such an unlikely dream, as if she could help it.

"My darling, I want you to listen to me. I could never intentionally put you in such danger. It is impossible, implausible, and downright unimaginable. You, who fought for me to be here and unconditionally allowed me into your life…I wouldn't be able to live with myself to cause you such pain. You are my brave new world." She punctuated her confession with a languid kiss.

Myka opened her eyes slowly, beaming, but couldn't help herself. "Do you mean Shakespeare or Huxley?"

"Theodore Huxley? We went to some meetings together, he was inspired." Helena replied immediately, accepting Myka's neurotic tendencies—absolutely adoring them.

"No, Aldous. His nephew, the author." Myka's fingers tangled in Helena's dark hair.

"Never got around to it, I wasn't really into new releases at the time. I am referring to Miranda in 'The Tempest.'" Myka couldn't help but smile at how easily Helena adapted between centuries, letting past and present experiences just exist. And absolutely open to new possibilities. And being into books. "Let's get up and you can help me make you breakfast." Helena made no move to loosen her embrace, possibly holding her lover more strongly.

"That kind of defeats the purpose of you making me breakfast." Myka teased.

"I still haven't mastered the fine art of operating an electric stove. If you would rather, we can have semi-burnt toast and too strong coffee."

"Getting up then." Myka remarked, imitating H.G.'s regal accent. She made no effort to move either.

"Perhaps dinner would be a better option. I can find much more pleasant ways to spend the morning than a cooking lesson."

"Dinner lunch or dinner supper?"

"Myka, just kiss me."

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A/N2: This is the first way I am dealing with the season finale. The second will hopefully follow within the week, it'll be a fic that actually goes along with the ill-advised "Buried" and "Reset." Nonetheless, feel free to use this ficlet as canon. Haha. Just kidding. Well, a little kidding…


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